And he would take it.

The morning light filtered through the narrow window of Lyonel’s chamber, pale and cold, painting strips of gold across the stone floor.

He woke with a start, the dreams of the night before—fire, flesh, and the weight of decisions—clinging to him like cobwebs.

The air was sharp, biting, the scent of pine and frost seeping through the cracks in the walls.

He sat up, rubbing his face, the stubble on his jaw rough beneath his fingers.

A knock at the door shattered the silence.

"Ser Lyonel?"

A young serving girl—Stark colors draped over her frame, her auburn hair tied back in a simple braid—stood in the doorway, her hands clasped before her.

"The king commands your presence on the royal hunt this afternoon."

Lyonel exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Tell him I’ll be there."

She nodded, curtsying before hurrying away.

He dressed quickly, pulling on his leathers, fastening Lionmane to his back.

The weight of the greatsword was comforting, a reminder of who he was—what he was.

But first, he needed something else.

---

The godswood was quiet, the ancient weirwood tree standing sentinel among the shadows, its red leaves rustling like whispers in the wind.

The air was thick with the scent of earth and old magic, the ground soft beneath Lyonel’s boots.

He knelt before the heart tree, his fingers brushing the carved face in the bark, his mind searching for something—peace, guidance, a sign that the world wasn’t as cruel as it seemed.

"Old Gods," he murmured, "if you’re listening…"

A soft rustle of fabric made him pause.

He turned his head, his gaze snagging on a figure kneeling a few feet away.

Sansa Stark, her auburn hair spilling loose down her back, her gown a deep blue that matched her eyes.

She was alone, no septa in sight, her hands clasped in prayer, her lips moving silently.

The morning light filtered through the leaves, painting her face in gold, her features soft with devotion.

Lyonel should have left. Should have given her privacy.

But he didn’t.

He bowed his head, returning to his own prayers, his voice low.

"Forgive the intrusion, my lady," he murmured, not looking at her.

Sansa didn’t respond immediately. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, hesitant. "You’re not intruding, Ser Lyonel."

She paused. "The godswood is for all who seek the Old Gods."

Lyonel nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on the heart tree. "I won’t disturb you, my lady."

A moment of silence. Then—

"You don’t have to call me that," she said. "Not here."

Lyonel glanced at her. She was watching him, her blue eyes curious, open. "Sansa," he corrected, though it felt strange on his tongue.

She smiled, small and pleased. "Thank you." She hesitated, then added, "You come here often?"

"No," he admitted. "But today, I needed to."

Sansa understood. She nodded, her fingers tracing the bark of the weirwood.

"I come every morning," she confessed.

"It’s the only place where I can think."

Lyonel studied her—the way the light caught in her hair, the sincerity in her expression.

"What do you think about?" he asked, though he knew he shouldn’t.

She looked at him, her eyes shining. "Stories," she said softly.

"Knights and chivalry. A world where men are honorable and women are cherished."

She laughed, self-deprecating. "Silly, I know."

"Not silly," Lyonel said. "Just… rare."

Sansa sighed. "I suppose." She paused, then added, "Do you believe in chivalry, Ser Lyonel?"

He hesitated. "I believed in it once."

"And now?"

"Now," he said, his voice rough, "I believe in what I can hold."

Sansa frowned, but there was no judgment in her gaze. "That’s sad."

"It’s honest," he replied.

She studied him for a long moment. "You’re different from the others," she said at last. "You don’t pretend."

Lyonel didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Sansa stood, brushing the dirt from her gown.

"I should go," she said, though she didn’t move immediately.

"Duties await."

Lyonel rose as well, nodding. "As do mine."

She hesitated, then stepped closer, her voice dropping. "Ser Lyonel… thank you. For talking to me. For not treating me like a child."

He felt something stir in his chest—something dangerous. "You’re not a child, Sansa," he said quietly.

"You’re a woman. And a strong one."

Her cheeks pinked, but she held his gaze. "Goodbye, Ser Lyonel."

"Goodbye, Sansa," he replied.

She turned and walked away, her skirts swirling around her ankles, leaving Lyonel standing in the silence of the godswood, his mind racing.

---

For a moment, he stood there, the weight of their conversation settling over him.

Sansa was different—kind, dreaming, believing in a world that didn’t exist.

And yet, there was strength in her, a quiet resilience that he admired.

But admiration wasn’t enough.

He turned toward the castle, his steps purposeful.

There was someone else he needed to see.

---

The maester’s chambers were tucked away in a quiet corner of Winterfell, the door closed, the air smelling of herbs and parchment.

Lyonel knocked, his knuckles rapping sharply against the wood.

"Enter," came Luwin’s voice, calm, measured.

Lyonel pushed the door open.

Maester Luwin sat at his desk, quill in hand, scrolls spread before him.

He looked up, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of Lyonel.

"Ser Lyonel," he said, setting his quill aside. "What can I do for you?"

Lyonel stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

"You can tell me, Maester," he said, his voice low, "why a man of your standing was found in a whorehouse."

His face was calm, composed, but his fingers twitched nervously around the quill he had set aside.

The atmosphere was charged, the silence heavy with the weight of Lyonel’s unspoken accusation.

"Ser Lyonel," Luwin began, his voice steady but strained, "I don’t know what you—"

"Save it," Lyonel cut in, his voice low, dangerous.

He stepped closer to the desk, his shadow falling over the maester like a warning.

"I saw you, Maester. In the whorehouse in Winter Town."

His eyes narrowed. "With a girl on your lap."

Luwin’s face paled. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his chain, fingering the links as if they could shield him. "Ser Lyonel, I—"

"No excuses," Lyonel snapped, leaning forward, his palms flat on the desk.

"You took vows, Maester. Chastity. Service. Wisdom."

His lips curled in disgust. "And yet, there you were."

Luwin swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "I—I have needs, Ser Lyonel. We are all men—"

"We are not all men," Lyonel interrupted, his voice a growl.

"Some of us still believe in honor."

He pushed away from the desk, crossing his arms. "But you don’t care about that, do you? You care about keeping your secrets."

Luwin’s breath hitched. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lyonel smirked, cold and unforgiving. "Information." He stepped closer again, lowering his voice.

"You send ravens for the Starks. You know everything that happens in this castle. And now, you’ll send ravens for me."

Luwin’s eyes widened. "You want me to spy for you?"

"I want you to keep your mouth shut about my affairs," Lyonel said, his tone lethal.

"And in return, I won’t tell Lord Stark that his trusted maester fucks whores in brothels."

He leaned in, his voice a hiss. "You’ll send me word of any political decisions, any plans, any secrets that might concern me. And you’ll do it without question."

Luwin’s hands clenched into fists. "And if I refuse?"

Lyonel’s smile was razor-sharp. "Then I visit Lord Stark with a very interesting story."

He paused, letting the threat hang in the air. "And we both know how much he values honor."

The maester exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "You drive a hard bargain, Ser Lyonel."

"Life is hard," Lyonel replied, unmoved.

"Now swear it. On the Old Gods and the Seven."

Luwin closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded.

"I swear it," he said, his voice hoarse.

"On the Old Gods and the Seven, I will send you word of any matters that concern you. And I will keep your secrets as my own."

"Good," Lyonel said, straightening. "See that you do."

Luwin didn’t meet his eyes. "You have my word."

Lyonel turned toward the door, then paused. "And Luwin?"

The maester looked up, wariness in his gaze.

"If you betray me," Lyonel said, his voice cold, "I won’t just tell Lord Stark. I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to the hounds."

Luwin paled further, but he nodded.

Lyonel left the chamber, the door clicking shut behind him with finality.

---

The training grounds of Winterfell were alive with the clash of steel and the grunts of men pushing themselves to their limits.

The air was crisp, the ground hard beneath Lyonel’s boots as he strode toward the sparring rings.

The sound of swords meeting swords filled the space, the rhythm familiar, comforting.

Near the center of the yard, Jon Snow stood with Ser Rodrik Cassel, the older man barking orders as Jon executed a series of strikes with a practice sword.

Jon was tall, lean, his dark hair swept back from his face, his grey eyes sharp with focus. He moved with the ease of a man used to battle, his stance balanced, his blows precise.

Ser Rodrik, grizzled and broad, watched with a critical eye, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Again!" Rodrik barked, "faster this time!"

Jon nodded, adjusting his grip and lunging forward with a grunt.

Lyonel approached, his presence drawing their attention.

Jon paused, lowering his sword, his gaze flicking to Lyonel. "Ser Lyonel," he said, nodding in acknowledgment.

"Jon Snow," Lyonel replied, giving the younger man a once-over. "Heard you were with the Night’s Watch."

Jon wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Aye," he said, "black cloak and all."

There was a bitterness in his tone, but his expression remained composed.

Ser Rodrik grunted, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "Best swordsman we’ve had in years," he said, pride evident in his voice.

"Even if he did choose the wrong path." He turned to Lyonel, sizing him up. "You here for the hunt, ser?"

"Aye," Lyonel replied, "though I’d rather spend my time with a sword in my hand than a spear."

Rodrik chuckled. "A man after my own heart." He gestured to Jon.

"This one’s got the same mindset. Too bad he’s wasted on the Wall."

Jon’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Lyonel studied him for a moment, seeing the fire in his eyes, the restlessness in his stance.

"Winterfell’s loss is the Night Watch’s gain," he said at last.

Jon met his gaze, something unreadable passing between them. "Maybe," he replied, "or maybe it’s just where I belong."

Lyonel didn’t answer. He knew the weight of belonging—or the lack of it.

Ser Rodrik cleared his throat. "Well," he said, "if you’re here to train, Rivers, pick up a blade. Snow here could use a real challenge."

Jon smirked, raising his sword. "Careful, ser," he said, "I don’t lose often."

Lyonel grinned, rolling his shoulders. "Good," he replied, "neither do I."

The training grounds faded around him, the clash of steel ringing in his ears.

–

The training yard fell silent as Lyonel reached for Lionmane, the greatsword resting against the rack like a sleeping beast.

The leather-wrapped hilt was worn from years of use, the blade itself massive, its edge gleaming dully in the afternoon sun.

It was not Valyrian steel—no rippling patterns, no unearthly sharpness—but it was his, forged for his hands, his strength, his wrath.

He lifted it with ease, the weight settling against his shoulder like an old friend.

Across from him, Jon Snow drew Longclaw from its sheath.

The Valyrian steel shimmered, dark and smoky, the ripples in the metal catching the light like liquid shadow.

The sword was slender compared to Lionmane, but Jon wielded it with the confidence of a man who knew its worth.

His grey eyes locked onto Lyonel’s, a challenge burning in their depths.

"You sure you want to do this?" Jon asked, testing the weight of Longclaw in his hand.

"That monster of yours looks like it could split a man in two."

Lyonel smirked. "It can." He shifted his grip, rolling his shoulders. "But you’re not just a man, are you, Snow? You’re a brother of the Night’s Watch."

Jon’s lips twitched. "And you’re a bastard with a chip on his shoulder."

He raised Longclaw, the blade humming as it cut through the air. "Let’s see which one of us falls first."

---

The first clash of steel rang out like a thunderclap.

Lyonel swung Lionmane in a wide, brutal arc, the sheer **** of the blow forcing Jon to leap back, his boots scraping against the dirt.

Longclaw flashed in response, a quick, precise thrust that Lyonel barely parried, the impact sending a shudder up his arms.

The Valyrian steel bit into Lionmane, chipping away a sliver of metal with a shrill scream.

"Gods," Jon muttered, dancing back as Lyonel pressed forward, "that thing hits like a damn warhammer."

Lyonel didn’t answer. He swung again, this time aiming for Jon’s side, but the younger man twisted away, Longclaw slashing in a counter that **** Lyonel to stumble back.

The Valyrian blade left another nick in Lionmane’s edge, the sound grating like nails on stone.

"You fight like a man who’s used to killing," Jon panted, circling. "Not like a knight."

"Knights die just the same," Lyonel growled, adjusting his stance. He feinted left, then swung right, Lionmane carving a furrow in the dirt where Jon had stood a heartbeat before.

The younger man was fast—too fast—his footwork light, his blade a blur of dark steel.

Jon laughed, breathless. "You’re strong, Rivers. Stronger than most." He lunged, Longclaw a silver streak, and Lyonel barely managed to twist away, the Valyrian blade grazing his side, slicing through the leather of his tunic. "But strength isn’t everything."

Lyonel gritted his teeth. Jon was right. The boy—no, the man—was skilled, his movements precise, his blade deadly.

But Lyonel had something Jon lacked: sheer, unrelenting power.

He roared, driving forward, Lionmane a whirlwind of steel.

Jon parried, dodged, countered, but each blow sent him stumbling, his arms shaking with the effort of holding back the storm.

Longclaw flashed, leaving another gouge in Lionmane’s blade, but Lyonel didn’t care. He pressed harder, faster, his muscles burning, his breath coming in raging gasps.

Jon’s eyes widened as he realized—Lyonel wasn’t holding back.

The young Stark ducked under a wild swing, rolling to his feet and bringing Longclaw up in a **** arc.

The Valyrian steel clashed against Lionmane, the impact sending a shockwave through Lyonel’s arms.

For a moment, the two men stood locked, blades pressed together, breath mingling in the cold air.

"Yield," Jon gritted out, his face flush with exertion.

"Never," Lyonel snarled.

With a final, brutal shove, he sent Jon stumbling back.

The younger man recovered quickly, Longclaw a blur as he countered, but Lyonel met the strike with Lionmane, the clash echoing like thunder.

Sparks flew as Valyrian steel bit into ordinary forged metal, but neither man faltered.

Then—

"Enough!"

Ser Rodrik's voice boomed across the yard, cutting through the clash of steel. Both men froze, breathing heavily, their blades still locked.

Ser Boros Blount stood at the edge of the training grounds, his fat frame casting a long shadow, his face set in a scowl.

"The king demands your presence, Rivers," he called, his voice gruff with annoyance.

"Now."

---

Lyonel lowered Lionmane, exhaling sharply.

Jon stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Seems the king has other plans for you," he said, grinning despite his exhaustion.

Lyonel nodded, sheathing his sword. "Seems so." He turned to Ser Rodrik, who watched them with approving eyes.

"A fine match," the old knight said, clapping his hands. "Both of you. Jon, your speed is unmatched, but Rivers—" he shook his head—"I’ve never seen a man wield a greatsword like that. Pure strength."

Lyonel grunted, though pride warmed his chest. "Thanks, ser."

Jon sheathed Longclaw, offering Lyonel a respectful nod. "Next time, I’ll bring a shield."

Lyonel chuckled. "Won’t help."

Boros Blount cleared his throat, impatient.

"Rivers."

Lyonel turned, grabbed his cloak, and followed the heavy knight toward the stables.